City of Ashes
by Nico Morrison
Summary: A retelling of The Crow: City of Angels...the way I think it should have been. Follows movie plot to an extent...then twists into a new world of demons...love...trust...and hate. Rating will increase due to language/sexual situations. Sarah/Ashe pairing. HIATUS
1. Pain

_**Hello! As promised, here is my new endeavor. It would be helpful for you to have at least seen the first Crow…or have a basic knowledge of it…because this story is based off the sequel. Aside from some references and explainations as they pertain to one of the main characters in this story, I won't touch the first Crow. Brandon Lee immortalized that character and I won't try to improve on it.**_

**_If you're wondering what happened to "UNRESOLVED"...then please email me. I will explain. _**

_**Standard disclaimers apply. I am making no money off of this. I'm just borrowing the characters.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**-Nico**_

* * *

Sarah woke with a start, causing Gabriel to jump from the foot of the bed where he had been curled up for the last few hours. The silky white cat narrowed his eyes at his owner and mewed in irritation, slinking off to find a snack…since he was up.

Sarah was vaguely aware that she had fallen asleep painting again; black paint was caked on her fingertips and the huge canvas she had been working on was still sprawled out next to her in her huge bed. It was dark out and most of the candles she had lit several hours ago had burned down to unidentifiable pools of wax.

She had never been one to settle down. She had come to Los Angeles in the hope of fleeing her painful memories of Detroit, but it seemed the black clouds that had hovered over her head there had followed her here. Her current living quarters were considerably better than the small apartment her drug-addicted mother had raised her in…even if she presently found herself in an abandoned loft on the sixth floor of a run-down, mostly abandoned building. When she had first gotten into town, someone had told her that the decrepit building had been a series of dance studios, graced by some of the biggest names in classic Hollywood…but now the floors were crumbling, everything was dusty and dirty…and the electricity and hot water were sketchy at best.

Still, the loft had appealed to her artistic side and the high, cathedral ceilings and wooden (albeit dirty) floors had called to her.

She'd been here for a year now.

But the nightmares had only started six weeks ago.

True, Sarah's dreams were never necessarily pleasant, but lately the intensity and frequency of these specific dreams were beginning to take their toll on her. She wearily rubbed her eyes with her paint-stained hands and crooked her neck to the side to squint at the dusty wall clock. 10:15. She was forty-five minutes late for work.

Instantly on her feet, Sarah was silently thankful that she had fallen asleep in her clothes…not an easy feat considering that her current outfit consisted of a black corset, fishnets and wispy yet strategically placed black fabric. Her brownish-blonde hair was twisted into a series of small buns and braids about her head with several unruly spiral curls tumbling down to frame her porcelain face. Red eyeliner framed her icy-pale blue eyes…eyeliner that may have been cosmetic or…more likely…the effect of several weeks of interrupted sleep.

The air on the street choked her, just as it did every night. LA had an eerie, green glow at night…an effect of smog combining with the night lights of the city. The streets were littered with newspapers…food wrappers…oil slicks…glass…anything that the world figured could be discarded…including hundreds of human beings either too young, old, sick or drug-addled to make a living.

While painting was a favorite pastime, it didn't pay Sarah's minimal bills. She still needed to eat. Some time ago, back in Detroit, she had started her career as a tattoo artist. Painting a canvas and permanently scarring human skin were actually more similar than they sounded.

Instead of choking on air, Sarah opted for a cigarette, which she lit quickly as she began the seven block walk to the tattoo studio, where she would work overnight as The Mistress of Pain…the local's affectionate little name for her.

Noah barely looked up from the tattoo he was currently etching on the back of an uncomfortable looking man. "You're late, love," he said, his British accent still prominent even thought he had lived in the states for 25 of his 45 years.

"I know, I'm sorry," Sarah said, her voice eternally child-like. "I haven't been getting that much sleep."

Noah chuckled. "At least someone's getting laid." The man he was tattooing laughed too.

Sarah smiled. "No, it's not that…it's just," she paused to collect her thoughts. "I've been having these really strange dreams."

"Well wake up and welcome to the real world," Noah said, pointing with his needle in the direction of a waiting customer. He winked at Sarah, who forced a smile and motioned for her next victim to take a seat in her chair.

* * *

For most people, dawn was a time of day that often went unnoticed…taken for granted. For Sarah, it signified the end of another long night and held the promise of another day struggling between trying to sleep and ferociously painting the images that had tormented her when she was able to sleep.

"Want to start your day off with a beer, love?" Noah asked, shrugging into his beat up leather jacket. Sarah shook her head.

"No," she smiled. "I'm okay."

Noah shuffled over, his limp a result of a drunken scuffle two decades ago. He kissed Sarah's cheek. "I have some valium, if you want it. It will help you sleep."

Sarah smiled and patted the older man's scruffy cheek. "Thanks, Noah, but I don't even take aspirin."

Noah shook his head and shrugged. "Crazy girl," he said. "You'll lock up when you're done?"

Sarah nodded. "Goodnight, Noah."

Noah smiled. "It's morning, girl. You're turning into a genuine creature of the night."

For some reason, Sarah shuddered as the door slammed behind him as he left.

Gathering her belongings slowly, Sarah yawned. Just like every other morning, she felt a rush of excitement, hoping that the yawn would preannounce a good, restful sleep. And again like every morning that hope quickly vanished as she realized she might never sleep again.

Moving more quickly now, Sarah closed up the shop and pulled the heavy, protective gate across the door.

Suddenly, she felt a fluttering against the back of her head. Spinning around, her eyes fell on an enormous black bird which was perched on a graffiti-stained bus bench, cawing loudly and eyeing her suspiciously.

It was a crow, she realized.

And it wanted her to follow it.


	2. Dead

**_Still sort of following the movie plot...it will branch off soon! Please review...this is my first go at a horror story...I'd love to know what you guys are thinking!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

The beat up 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass that had carried Sarah from Detroit to LA groaned underneath the pressure she was applying to the gas pedal. Every few seconds, she craned her neck up to gaze through the windshield at the dark form of the crow she had been following for the past mile or so. Several times she thought she had lost sight of the animal, only to have it swoop back into her line of vision, leading her closer and closer to the abandoned marina downtown.

It was still dark out; dawn just beyond reach. Sarah's entire body trembled with anticipation. She had experienced the mystical powers of the crow once before, and was certain now that her terrible nightmares had been leading up to this event.

In her dreams, there was a man and his son. While she only visualized bits and pieces of them, Sarah had come to the realization that they had been murdered by a gang of individuals whose exploits had risen to near legendary status around LA. She had recognized the face of one of the gang members as a man who went by the name of Curve. Several weeks ago he had come into the tattoo shop in a drunken haze, producing a drawing of an enormous black bird which he had insisted she emblazed upon his chest.

Only now did she make the connection.

She didn't know why the gang had killed the man and the boy…especially since the child was so young…only about seven or eight. She had watched in her dreams as the only female in the gang shot the child at point blank range while his father watched helplessly…only to be shot by Curve moments later. The boy and his father appeared to be tied together and then flung into the water, dead.

Until now Sarah had assumed that the dreams had merely been fabrications of her traumatized mind…but as she followed the crow to a particularly uninviting and hidden dock, she was frightened by what truths she was about to discover.

The crow came to a rest at the head of the dock, cawing as Sarah turned off her car. As it stuttered off, the silence became deafening.

She opened the car door, wincing as the creaking noise bounced back into her ears. Then there was no sound except for her heels on gravel and the persistent caw of the crow.

Slowly, Sarah walked down the dock, following as the crow jumped from one wooden pillar to the next until her toes edged against the end of the dock. Murky brown water licked at the rotting wood and a thick fog blanketed the area, but no other movement was visible.

Sarah sighed, surprised that her breath came out in a heavy puff of smoke in the humid air.

Suddenly, twenty or so feet out in front of her, the water began to bubble as if boiling. Sarah backed up a few steps, her eyes wide with horror. The water continued its violent churning.

And then Sarah's eyes fixed on a figure of a man, his clothes torn, his face in anguish, screaming as he erupted from the depths of the water.

For a moment, he was there, appearing to stand on the water with his arms stretched up to the sky in a morbid embrace. Then he plummeted again, resurfacing after only a second and beginning to climb the rotting wood of the dock, his breath coming in anguished pants as he struggled up to the flat surface, mere feet in front of Sarah.

Sarah watched as the man struggled to breathe normally, spitting up murky water from his lungs. It was only when he finally stopped writhing, flat on his back, that he turned his attention to her.

His eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of her. She opened her mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut, unsure of how to approach this situation.

The man was covered in silt and sand, his features barely identifiable under so much filth. Tears were streaking down his face in paths against the dirt. His brow furrowed as he looked over at Sarah.

"Who…who are you?" He asked, his voice deep and carrying an accent…French, Sarah guessed.

Sarah pried her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "Sarah…" she replied.

The man's face twisted into confusion…then something else…pain, perhaps…and finally his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.

Sarah exhaled heavily. Now what? The man was enormous…well over six feet and thickly roped with muscles. Behind her, the crow cawed nervously.

Sarah looked around. There wasn't anyone in sight, not that she'd ask for help anyhow. She edged closer to the man and then reached down to grasp each of his wrists.

And though she was barely five feet and just under a hundred pounds, Sarah somehow found the strength to pull the unconscious form into her car and then up the six flights of stairs once she arrived back to her loft.

* * *

She had been laying next to him on the dirty floor of her loft for the past hour. He was on his side, one hand splayed out, palm up. Sarah traced the skin of his palm, brushing away the silt that still clung to his flesh. She listened as his breath came in even draws. She watched as his eyes moved underneath the lids, his brow furrowing against hellish dreams.

She was about to try and wake him when it happened naturally. With a gasping intake of breath, the man was on all fours, looking like a wounded animal. Sarah moved back on her rear, keeping a distance from this stranger.

The man coughed, gasping as if he was still underwater. He pulled at his shirt, his fingertips finding three bullet-sized welts just over his heart. He lifted his head to look at her.

"Who are you?" He demanded again.

"I'm Sarah," Sarah repeated. "I dreamt of you. I saw them shoot you and your son. I saw you drowning…"

The man's face twisted again. "How did I survive?"

A sad realization washed over Sarah. She took a trembling breath. "You didn't," she whispered. "You're dead."

The man's face went white. "No…" he murmured, shaking his head slowly from one side to the other.

Tears unexpectedly formed in Sarah's eyes. She rose to her feet, watching as the man did the same, his arms curling around himself as if he were cold. She took a step forward and reached out to touch his pale skin, but he jerked back violently, his back against one of Sarah's crumbling walls.

Sarah stood perfectly still. "What's your name?" She asked softly.

The man lifted his clouded eyes to regard her. "Ashe," he replied, his voice breaking.

"There's a reason why you've been brought back, Ashe," Sarah said.

"To find the people who did this….to make them pay," came the harsh reply. Sarah nodded.

"I want to help," she said. "Let me help you."

Ashe shook his head again. "No!" He suddenly yelped.

Then, he was off running.


	3. Curve

**_Enjoy! And thank you so much for the reviews. They mean a lot to me. )_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Curve snorted a thick line of grainy black heroin, his eyes rolling back in his head in pleasure as the potent drug surged through his nasal passages and then directly into his brain. He was fairly certain that his addiction would kill him eventually, but he didn't care.

Nothing really mattered when he was high.

Plus it was so much easier to carry out Judah's increasingly violent orders in the blissful fog of the drug.

Thinking of Judah made Curve curse. He knew that the drug lord was waiting for him in the offices above the fetish club in which Curve was presently hanging out, but instead of rushing to Judah's side as Curve had done when he was just a young kid dealing drugs, he ordered another shot of Jack, delaying the meeting for as long as he could get away with.

Another hour passed, maybe two before Curve pushed away from the marble bar and stumbled through the throngs of freaky club-goers in the general direction of the dimly lit back stairwell that led to Judah's offices. Curve snorted to himself as he thought of the word "office;" Judah's private rooms above the club were more like torture chambers than places of business.

Of course, Judah's business _did_ often revolve around torture.

Curve fumbled with the sleek golden key that opened up the main chamber and practically fell inside. Judah sat behind a long, black desk, his dark skin cast in shadows from a low-burning fire in an impressive fireplace.

"You were supposed to be here three hours ago," Judah said, his lips the only part of his body that moved.

Curve fought a chill. Three hours? He hadn't realized he was _that _late.

"Sorry," he muttered, thankful that the heroin was still pumping furiously through his veins.

Judah remained silent, but then rose in one graceful movement. He padded silently over to Curve and studied the man's face.

"Just how much of my product goes up your nose in a given week, Curve?" Judah asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"Only what's rightfully mine," Curve replied, the hostility in his voice unmistakable.

Judah's face twisted into a sardonic smile. "Who is to say what is rightfully anyone's, Curve?"

Curve pressed his lips together. Judah so often spoke in cryptic riddles that it was impossible to reply coherently. So Curve didn't.

Judah nodded once, taking Curve's silence for submission. "There is something I need you to do for me," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I have it on good authority that trouble may be on the horizon for us," Judah replied, his voice still calm. Curve's eyes instinctively went to a hooded figure in the shadows, namely a woman named Sybil, who Judah was convinced could see the future.

"What kind of trouble?" Curve asked, his eyes still locked on Sybil.

"It is unclear," Sybil said, her voice soft and lyrical from the corner of the room.

"Sybil, stay silent," Judah barked, his voice rising to a frightening threat. Sybil immediately shrunk back into the shadows. "I am not certain of the exact trouble, but I believe it has something to do with one of our recent victims," he continued, his voice calm again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. He flashed it in front of Curve's eyes.

"Do you know this woman?" Judah asked.

Curve studied the picture. A young woman with ringlet curls, ice-blue eyes and the saddest expression Curve had ever seen stared out at him. All at once, he recognized the girl.

"Yeah…she works at that Tattoo parlor on Deacon Street," he said. "They call her the mistress of pain."

Judah pulled the photo from Curve's line of vision. "She knows what happened to that man and his boy," he said harshly. "I want you to find out how much of a threat she is to us."

Curve nodded. "Fine," he said.

Judah suddenly raised a hand and touched Curve's cheek. His fingertips were colder than ice.

"Go," Judah said.

Curve turned abruptly, happy to be out of the room for the time being.

* * *

The dripping of water into strategically placed pots and pans and the occasional mew from Gabriel were the only noises coming from Sarah's loft for the past few hours. Her body was screaming for sleep, but she simply couldn't, her eyes insistent on remaining wide open.

Instead, she was painting. The large canvas that lay out on her bed was beginning to take shape. As with most of her artistic endeavors, Sarah never knew if what she was creating would be something beautiful or horrible. From the looks of the dark colors that were splayed across the once snow white canvas, she could guess what this one would be.

It was nearly midnight. Sarah had called in sick to work. Noah had been audibly concerned; Sarah never missed work. Even when she had strep throat a few months back, she was there, tattooing in between doses of antibiotics and steaming cups of tea. After assuring him several times that she was simply tired, he had let her off the phone insisting she call if she needed him.

As she dragged her paint-stained hands across her tired face, she knew _exactly _what she needed.

Ashe.

It was strange to feel such a connection to this man…who wasn't really a man…more like a ghost…after having only brief contact with him. Each time she blinked, she saw his face behind her eyelids, twisted in anguish, weeping over the loss of his son. Every fiber of her being screamed out to her to find him….to run the streets of LA and demand he return to her loft.

She was about to do just that when he came back on his own.

It was a fluttering of wings that drew Sarah's attention from the canvas to the far corner of her loft where a large bay window gave way to a fire escape. On the windowsill sat the crow, and on the escape balcony sat Ashe.

He looked a bit different than he had earlier that morning. The torn clothing he had emerged from the water wearing had been replaced with black leathers. Leather pants hugged his legs. A leather vest was peeking out under a long black leather trench coat. Heavy black boots covered his feet.

He was sitting sort of hunched over, staring at his hands. His chin length hair acted as a veil hiding his facial expression from Sarah, yet she could clearly see his lush lips pressed into a thin line.

"You came back," she said softly.

Ashe jerked his head to look at her. She gasped inwardly, his beauty catching her off guard.

He stood in quick motion, causing Sarah to jump. When he noticed he had frightened her, he slowed down his movements. He approached her bed like a cat, his fingertips reaching out to unconsciously touch the gauze like material that hung from the iron bedposts, forming something of a netting around the large bed.

He regarded her for a few minutes, his head tilted curiously to one side. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and stronger than it had been earlier.

"Danny was never afraid of death," he said abstractly. Sarah held her breath as he spoke. "He once told me that when you die, you go to a better place. That he was certain of it."

Sarah peeled her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "Maybe he's right," she offered.

Ashe lifted his arms to gesture around the room. "Is _this_ a better place? After all, I am dead, aren't I?"

Sarah nodded numbly.

Ashe changed topics. "Have you ever lost someone to a better place?" He whispered.

Sarah nodded again. "Yes," she said softly.

"And do you believe they are happy?"

She hesitated. "I don't know," she said honestly.

Ashe moved closer to her and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out his hand to where hers was, his cold fingertips brushing her warm skin.

She allowed him to touch her, unable to ignore the sparks of electricity between them. It was crazy…strange…not of this world…to be having such feelings for this…man.

He looked up at her, holding her unblinking gaze with his own. "What happens to me, once I finish what I have to do here?" He whispered.

Sarah blinked back unexpected tears. "You go back," she replied.

Ashe grasped her hand. "And what if I don't want to go back?"


End file.
